Dr Dave's final admission
by WarpedScientist
Summary: Random challenge response, pure fluff set somewhere in season 7


Category: Challenge response (challenge words in italic)

Disclaimers: Nobody saw me do it, can't prove a thing.

Authors notes: A short bit of fluff which appeared on my hard disk in response to Jenn Shatterpath's second caveat emptor challenge; sorry for the blatant lack of plot : )

Thanks also to Tasha for the suggestions & grammar check. Beta's rule!

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The new psych attending, Dr. Kimberly Legaspi, sighed quietly as she moved from room to room, familiarizing herself with the night's bumper crop of new patients and wondering where to start. It was the night before the _full moon,_ and already County General was bursting at the seams with werewolves, vampires, and Neil Armstrong wannabes.

In one room "_President_ Clinton" was extolling the virtues of self-sufficient farming and the need to free the American people from slavery to the automobile. _Wild horses_ could provide all the transport they'd need and fertilize the gardens while they were at it, saving millions of taxpayer's dollars.

In the bed beside him, a multiple abductee was also talking about excrement and the various dissections he had seen performed on it by the fierce aqua Whamorites and the calmer lilac Slapporians who abducted him weekly for English and grammar lessons.

In another room, a pair of teenage Superheroes could be heard swapping stories and comparing their superhero accessories:

"Here. _Pull my turtle_. It's shell opens and has a secret bullet-proof compartment."

"That's nothing! Pat my kitten and it releases sneezing fluff that will have the bad guys immobilized in no time."

'Pat my kitten? Oh my!' She laughed and wondered if she should try that line on the cute, little redheaded doc she had noticed during her already frequent trips to the ER. No. Her plan was to attract the feisty lifesaver, not piss her off and _nevermore_ be allowed to admire that cute little backside.

* * *

Downstairs the redheaded Dr. Weaver stepped out from Trauma 2 holding a blood-covered set of plastic fangs she had just removed from her patient's throat. She had successfully repaired the torn vein. Only time would tell if he would recover from the blood loss or whether these seemingly harmless props would have to be reclassified as a murder weapon.

She carefully sealed the offending piece of plastic into an evidence bag and handed it to the policeman who had overseen the entire process. They briefly discussed the victim's prognosis as Carter prepared him for transport to the ICU.

For a brief moment, Kerry considered paging the new psych doc to come and deal with the now de-fanged "vampire" but she realized it would still be some time before the sedative wore off. He was safe where he was. Kerry had noticed that the blonde had looked a little stressed the last time she had been paged and so resolved to go easy on the new doc and give her a little breathing room.

Kerry was reluctant to consider her motives for being so gentle with the new attending but was soon distracted as she surveyed the barely controlled chaos that was her ER. Despite her best efforts the chairs were full, and patients wondered around like lost souls in need of a _hug_.

She could see yet another Trekkie, complete with Star Fleet uniform, lecturing the desk clerks on the _astrophysics_ of the quantum mirror which had brought him back through time to help prevent the human race from being taken over by the prolific Tribbles of Klingon _legend_. Randi was smiling to herself and taking notes, no doubt sure she had at last found the case that was to be the _Launch pad_ for her career as a _Discovery Channel _science reporter.

Also at the desk, Frank was busily answering phones and guarding the spoils of the latest Starbucks run from the caffeine-starved patients. Kerry's non-fat African latte, was already a thing of the past and she was eyeing off Carter's triple espresso. Her desire for more caffeine warred with her dislike of the thick black liquid.

With a feeling of dread she realized she hadn't seen Dr. Malucci since he swooped in for his industrial-sized drink at least 15 minutes ago. That was more than enough time for him to finish his coffee and get back to work. It was also more than enough time for him to get into trouble and so she set off in search of her missing resident.

The resident in question was hiding out in Curtain 1 trying desperately to _reboot_ the valuable piece of medical technology he had showered with hot coffee. Weaver was going to go nuts when she found out. His only chance at saving himself from a Weavering of epic proportions was to fix the machine, remove the evidence and hope his "nobody saw me do it, can't prove a thing," defense would work. Though why it would now when it never had in the past was something he didn't want to think about. Never mind the fact that someone had seen him do it and the laws of physics meant the puddle of sweet-smelling proof was even now meandering its way towards the door.

"Ok, it's done. _Try the paddles_."

Abby eyed the brown sticky objects with horror. "You must be kidding. When Weaver finds out about this and comes looking for culprits, the only fingerprints on that thing are going to be yours!"

"Don't be a chicken Abby. Put some gloves on. It'll be fine. I promise."

"No way. If you want to electrocute yourself and save Weaver the bother that's one thing, but there is no way I am going anywhere near those things. Especially not while you're the doctor nearest the crash cart."

"Oh come on, Abby. Don't be so _hardheaded_ about this. Nothing can go wrong."

"Why don't I like the sound of that?" Kerry's voice cut through the bickering as she entered the room. Dave's face went from flushed to pale in the impressively short period of time it took for him to imagine his residency flashing and vanishing before his eyes.

"Alright! What's going here, and what is that smell? Dr. Malucci, please tell me you are not drinking coffee in a treatment room."

"Me, drinking? No, of course not," Dave protested as he searched desperately for an explanation, no matter how _eccentric_, that wouldn't lead directly to his death. Coming up blank, he moved to the side, exposing the still-dripping machine which had saved so many lives in the past and would now cost him his own. "The _defibrillator,_ however, has just had _a triple grande latte, light caramel syrup, no foam, 150 degrees._"


End file.
